


Seeing is Believing

by Chibiness87



Series: An Exercise in Nostalgia [8]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Episode: s05e08 Kitsunegari, F/M, MSR UST, Major character death - Freeform, angst like whoa, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 14:20:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14286792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chibiness87/pseuds/Chibiness87
Summary: He always knew it would come down to this.





	Seeing is Believing

**Seeing is believing** , by **chibiness87  
Season/Spoilers: ** 5x08 Kitsunegari  
**Rating: M** for themes  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine

 **Summary:** He always knew it would come down to this

* * *

 

He always knew it would come down to this.

Always knew he would lose her, knew he would cause her death.

But he never thought it would be like this.

Not by her own hand.

Her own gun.

Not with him staring helplessly on, unable to move, to react.

Unable to even try to save her.

The smell of spent gunpowder mingles with the scent of fresh blood, making his stomach churn.

He bends by instinct, emotions welling, fighting for dominance even as he tries and fails to find a pulse, the blood pool expanding under her head with every passing moment.

The shadows within the factory they are in hides the worst of it from his gaze, and he is glad for a second that he can’t really tell between the different shades of red. He knows they exist, of course. The tones of her hair never match that of a stop sign, or a fire engine. He knows her hair is different from the blood that still continues to pool.

He wishes he knew what she looked like to everyone else.

He wishes no one else got to see her like he does.

He wishes for a lot of things.

A movement behind him startles him, and he turns to see Linda Bowman, of all people, heading towards him.

Suddenly, all the feelings, the emotions that are threatening to overwhelm him have a target, a purpose.

He brings his gun up, trains it on her head.

He _knew_ she was dangerous.

He _knew_ she was the one.

And now Scully is dead.

Oh god, he’s going to be sick.

Tears are threatening his vision, but his aim is sure. Stable.

He’s going to shoot her.

Hit her.

Hurt her.

Just like she hurt Scully.

Just like she _killed_ Scully.

Linda Bowman has a gun trained on him then, and some small part of him that’s not crumpling in to a ball of agony at the feel of his partner’s body, Christ, Scully’s _body_ , behind him, wonders where she got it.

“Mulder,” Linda says, “Mulder, it’s me.”

He can still hear her say that to him. It’s how she always announced herself to him. Names between them weren’t needed. He knows the sound of her voice anywhere.

He’ll never get to hear it again.

“It’s Scully,” Linda says.

He wants to laugh. He wants to cry. Tears of grief, of pain, of god-this-can’t-be-happening horror. _Nice try_ , he thinks, _but I just watched Scully shoot herself in the head because of you. I know who you are._

But then Linda is saying things about his family, his mother and his sister, and that small part of him that’s wondering about the gun is now wondering about the names.

He supposes she could have looked that information up, but why would she need to?

He glances down, and the movement is enough to make a shot ring out, and he glances around in shock.

Scully’s body is no longer lying in a pool of blood behind him. She has gone.

No. _No_. Nononono. Not again.

He can’t have lost her _again_.

A hand appears on his arm, lowering it, making his gun now point to the floor. He allows the movement, because he recognises the fingers attached to his coat sleeve.

Hardly daring to breathe, he follows the path of it up over the elbow, into the concerned gaze of his partner’s blue eyes.

He would recognise those eyes anywhere.

“Scully?” he blinks, hardly daring to breathe, but she’s still there. She’s _still there_. “ _Scully_?”

She gives him a small nod, before moving behind him. He watches, stunned, as she crouches over the fallen figure, searching for signs of life. Scully gives a soft sigh, reaching in to her pocket for her cell. He listens with one ear as she relays her badge number and location to the operator, requesting paramedics.

Flicking her phone closed, she once again approaches him, wariness easy to read in her eyes.

“Are you ok, Mulder?”

He wants to laugh. He wants to cry.

Tears of relief, of gratitude, of holy-fuck-you’re-alive joy.

Her hand is gently tugging the gun from his hand then, and he is suddenly hunched over, desperate for breath.

Christ, he nearly shot her.

Again.

Instead of doing the _sane_ thing and getting the hell away from him, she is there, hand on his back and on his cheek, tilting his head up to see her. “Breathe, Mulder. I need you to breathe.”

He nods, gasping, trying to suck air in. But it’s too fast, his body unable to process the oxygen before its being expelled, and his breathing quickens, trying to overcompensate.

 _A panic attack_ , the small rational side of his brain that is still functioning. _You’re having a panic attack._

Unsurprisingly, this self-diagnosis does nothing to help calm him down, and his breathing turns to chocking gasps, his eyes squeezed tight, blocking everything out except the increasing hum in his mind.

But then his eye is being forced open, his gaze forced to meet that of his partner, his port in a never ending storm. As if from a distance, he hears her voice, calling to him.

“…Need you to look at me, goddammit.”

He blinks harshly, gaze trapped by her intense stare. Four points of sensation appear on his neck, and he suddenly realises she is digging her nails in, making him focus.

Chocking, he manages to gasp out, “I can’t stop.”

Scully nods, tightening her grip on the nape of his neck. “Can you keep your eyes open for me?”

He squeezes his eyes closed, feeling his chest tighten. “I can’t… I can’t calm down.”

Her voice is the only anchor he has, and he latches on to it. “I’m not asking you to calm down. I’m asking you to look at me.” Her grip changes, making his face tilt more towards her. Her voice is still gentle, but firm. “Look at me, Mulder. Come on.”

He nods, blinking rapidly, making his eyes stay on her. He sees her give a small smile, and a band around his chest loosens.

“Ok. Good. Just keep looking at me. Can you copy my breathing?”

He shakes his head. “I can’t slow down.”

“I’m not asking you to slow down. I’m asking you to copy me.”

He watches as she takes in exaggerated breaths, holding them for a moment before exhaling. He tries to copy her, but chokes on the breath hold, ends up gasping again, eyes slipping closed. “No. No, I can’t. I can’t.”

Scully tightens her grip. “No, no, don’t close your eyes. Keep looking at me.”

He does so with difficulty, heart still beating wildly in his chest, breaths coming in pants, but even he can tell they’re slowing slightly.

“Make a fist for me.”

The request is so left field, his body reacts before his mind can, his hand clenching against his side.

She gives him another quick smile. “Good. And relax it.”

This is harder, but he forces his hand to straighten. She nods in encouragement, sweeping her own hand down to cradle his.

“Good. Again.”

He clenches and releases in one movement this time, feeling some of the tension in him leave.

Voice back to being soft, she requests, “Again.”

Both hands this time, and when he releases he finds his vision has sharpened slightly, the hum of his mind receding.

Twice more she makes him make a fist, and on the release of the second time he feels his breathing finally settle.

Exhausted, he all but collapses against her, head burrowing into the cradle of her neck and shoulder. Her hands come up to cradle his neck, no nails this time, and he bites back a sob, breathing in her scent.

A motion behind them has him upright and in front of her in a second, body tense. But it’s just the paramedics, one who gives him a quick searching glance in consideration. He nods towards the body on the floor, gently taking Scully’s hand and pulling her away from the scene.

It only once they get away, after answering question after question from the local cops and into their own car, heading back towards DC, that he looks at her. “Before. When I was… How’d you know how to do that?”

He’s expecting something about medical training, so it shocks him when she says, “I know a little about panic attacks, about what works for me.” For the first time, she ducks her own gaze. “I just… I figured it might help you, too.”

He almost smiles, the barest twitch at the corner of his mouth for a moment. Reaching over, he takes her hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Well, thanks.”

She nods, glancing over at him again when he doesn’t let go.

Swiping his thumb over her wrist, feeling the gentle throb of her pulse under her skin, he mumbles, “Sorry about the whole gun-in-your-face thing.”

She huffs what might, on a different day under different circumstances, be a laugh. “You were under mind control, Mulder. I do have some experience with that.” She pauses, her eyes tracing over his face for a long moment. “God knows what she was making you see.”

Not wanting to continue this conversation while driving, he pulls into the parking lot of the next store they pass, shutting the engine down before turning to face her concerned gaze. “Mulder?”

In lieu of answer, he traces her hairline from her parting down over her ear, tracing over the skin of her temple where he can still see her holding the muzzle of her gun. Letting his fingers lay against that spot for slightly longer, he sighs, closing his eyes for a second. Opening them, he is met with the hesitant gaze of her partner.

Voice barely above a whisper, he admits, “It felt so real.”

Scully shakes her head at him gently. “It wasn’t real. Whatever she made you see, Mulder, it wasn’t real.”

He closes his eyes again, lost in memory.

The fear in her eye.

The sound of the shot.

The scent of her blood pooling around her…

A gentle squeeze of the hand he’s holding brings him back to the present. Voice breaking on a sob that finally breaks free, he gasps, “I thought I lost you.”

This time, it is her reaching for him, pulling him into her space, the console between them digging in to his hip uncomfortably, but he’s not thinking about that right now. He’s only concerned with the weight of her arms around him, pressing the brow of her head against his. “I’m here, Mulder. I’m right here.”

Foreheads pressed together, he breathes in the air she exhales. It feels intimate, closer than a kiss, the air grows heavy between them. He pulls back eventually, but only far enough to press a kiss to her forehead, before finally pulling back with a sigh.

Scully motions to their positions. “You okay to drive? Want me to take over?”

He shakes his head, finally feeling settled, his compass steady once more. “I’m good, Scully.” A glance at the clock on the dash shows it’s far later than he thought. “Don’t worry, I’ll have you back home before you turn into a pumpkin.”

She gives him her version of the stink eye. It feels right. Normal. “It was the coach that turned into a pumpkin.”

He glances at her feet, remembering a time past when he teased her about the size of her feet. “Well, if the shoe fits…”

Scully sighs, settling back in her seat. He can hear her smile in her voice. The relief. “Drive, Mulder.”

He drives.

* * *

 End

Thoughts?

 


End file.
